


I'll Be Good

by MoonlightBreeze



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger, Anger Management, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cigarettes, Comfort/Angst, Comforting Sam Winchester, Cute, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Sam Winchester Angst, Sam Winchester Fluff, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Smoking, Teen Angst, Underage Smoking, Understanding Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 17:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14815652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlightBreeze/pseuds/MoonlightBreeze
Summary: The reader finds out that their two best friends (original female characters) are smoking cigarettes behind their back and due to a past relationship with cigarettes and smoking itself, takes the news very hard. The reader is upset and angry and has a breakdown, but Sam finds them and comforts them.





	I'll Be Good

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second x reader oneshot, so it might not be very good. If you have any advice, feedback, comments, suggestions, etc., don't be afraid to leave them in the comments below. I welcome any and all reviews. This oneshot was based off of my own personal experiences, so it's a little odd. I'm not sure very many people out there have written this kind of x reader oneshot before. Either way, I hope you enjoy it!

You stomped into the bunker, sprinting to Sam’s room, the one you had been staying in. When you got there, you threw the door open, praying he wasn’t home, and threw your bag at the bed. Luckily, he and Dean must have been on a hunt, because he was nowhere in sight. You plopped onto the mattress, hugging your arms over your body and starting to rock. You felt tears forming in your eyes, and you wanted to sob and sob and wail, but you hated crying; always had. Besides the horrible feeling of failure and not being good enough settling in your body, you also felt an undeniable spark of anger - whether at yourself or them, you didn’t know.

You continued to rock as you thought back over the events of that day. You had been staying at your best friend’s house, with your best friends, Starr and Rowan. That morning, you woke to find them gone. Worried, you started looking around for them. Finally, after a few minutes of searching, you found them in the woods off of Rowan’s property, sitting behind a tree, and smoking.

The moment you saw the cigarettes hanging from their lips, you turned and ran back the way you came, your feet hitting the grass with force every step of the way. You grabbed your bags, left a note saying that Sam and Dean needed you back at the bunker, and ran home.

Now there, you had to face your feelings about your best friends in the whole world smoking cigarettes. Your mind immediately began to spin with worry, anger, and pain. You thought back to when your cousin Marcie had died from lung cancer, or your Uncle Ralph, or your friend Joselyn. You thought about everyone that you had ever lost to the disease, and your feelings heightened to a breaking point. The list was a long one. 

Besides that, the misplaced anger was taking its toll on you - they had kept this from you! Soon, however, the anger began to turn onto you. 

You failed.

You couldn’t be enough for them.

You weren’t enough, and as a result they turned to this to make themselves feel better.

Why couldn’t you just be enough?

Why couldn’t you have just been what they needed?

Why didn’t you stop them from doing this?

Why weren’t you enough?

Why aren’t you ever enough?  
“Fuck!” you screamed, and tugged at your hair desperately, pulling at it in anger. Suddenly unable to stand the emotions coursing through your body, your breath coming faster, in desperate little gasps. It took all of two seconds for you to make your decision. 

You got up hurriedly and went to the kitchen, finding several old plates that Sam and Dean were not likely to miss in the grand scheme of things, and stalked to the garage where the Impala and Sam’s motorcycle were. You faced the wall that had no vehicles on it, and grabbed a plate.

Feeling the anger course through you, you threw the plate as hard as you could at the concrete wall. It shattered on impact, crashing into a million glass pieces. Seeing the plate break set off some feeling of satisfaction in you, and you quickly grabbed the next plate and threw it at the wall, too. With every plate that broke, the dam rose higher and higher inside of you, and you felt better and better. However, when the last plate had been shattered, the emotions returned with surprising ferocity.

You tucked your head into your hands and curled up into a ball, rocking on your knees, and finally started to cry, though hating yourself for it the whole time. Worry clouded your brain. You had known so many people that had died from smoking cigarettes, and even more people that had ruined their lives because of the addiction - falling bankrupt, withdrawal so bad that they couldn’t work, their lives revolving around their next smoke. The idea of your two best friends in the entire world (except Sam and Dean, of course) falling prey to such a thing made you so goddamn emotional and angry at them for trying it in the first place, despite your constant warnings and their apparently-empty promises to never smoke cigarettes. 

Despite all of this, you were more angry at yourself. You allowed yourself to be everyone’s punching bag, everyone’s shoulder to lean on, everyone’s mini-counselor. You felt a duty to take care of those that you loved and steer them away from seriously bad choices, like smoking. You felt like you had failed if they were smoking cigarettes, and it was such a harsh emotion that it made you sit down there in the parking garage for almost fifteen minutes, sobbing, thinking about what had happened. 

So engrossed were you in your own sadness and anger that you didn’t even hear the army boots thudding across the cement floor rapidly. “Y/N!” Sam’s voice startled you out of your pit of sorrow, but not for long. The thought of him seeing you like this made the tears come harder, faster. You hid your face in your arms again. 

It didn’t take long for Sam to reach you, and he was immediately down on the ground with you, stroking your hair, arms folding around you, his voice, calm and soothing, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. You took a moment to realize how crazy the whole scene must have looked - you, who never cries, on the cold, hard floor of the garage sobbing your eyes out, surrounded by broken plates. 

“Y/N, please look at me,” Sam begged. “I want to help. Please tell me what’s wrong.” You shook your head, knowing that you were overreacting and not wanting to be called pathetic or be told that you were overreacting. “Please,” Sam continued begging. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge you, Y/N, please.” Something about the tone of his voice that time and his promise to hold off any judgment, made you raise your head to meet his eyes.

You thought of how ugly you must look, with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. You wiped your face on your shirt and allowed Sam to transfer your body onto his lap, his strong arms wrapped around you tightly. “Now, what’s wrong?” Sam asked, pulling back slightly in order to raise your chin to get you to look him in the eyes.

You spilled everything, from your friends smoking cigarettes to the reasons behind why you had reacted in such a way, to the broken plates surrounding them, and your mental breakdown. By the end of the speech, you felt much better than before. 

Sam didn’t know what to say, so he just held you closer and listened, stroking your hair and kissing your forehead when your voice cracked like you were going to start crying again. He listened to you pour your heart out, and then, when you were finished, he picked you up bridal-style and said that he would have Dean come down and clean up the plates later. 

“You’re not mad?” you asked incredulously, expecting some kind of repercussion for breaking all of those plates. Sam laughed, his brown, floppy moose hair falling into his puppy-dog-eyes. “No, Y/N/N, I’m not mad,” he said. “I was more worried about you. I didn’t even notice the plates at first.” You smiled into his chest. “Besides,” he added teasingly, “You’ll be good from now on, won’t you, bugaboo?” I groaned, a smile cracking my face for the first time that day. “Ugh, not that nickname again!”

Sam laughed, and kissed my forehead again. “I’m so glad I have you,” I mumbled.

“Me too, Y/N,” Sam said, cradling you closer to his chest.


End file.
